Page 32 of One More Day
‘Life is like a journey with no map to guide you,’ I say out loud to George who tiptoes beside me in the light fall of powdery snow. ‘But we’re doing OK, yeah, George? I’m doing my best to see that we’re doing OK.’
I stop and breathe in the cold air, taking in the beauty and comfort of my surroundings. This place used to be my playground. These winding grey roads, the dips and turns, the wilds of the valleys that lead to the ocean and down to the lighthouse where I made my childhood wishes, so many of which did come true.
I feel my shoulders relax and my jaw loosen. This is my favourite place in the world. This is the place where I’ll always feel like I belong.
Michael loved it here too.
We’d visit Fanad Lighthouse every year and make up the most ridiculous New Year Resolutions with the wind in our hair, paper cups of coffee to warm our hands and steam from our breath chasing the air as we looked out over the majestic expanse of Lough Swilly that stretches for miles across to Malin Head, the most northernly point of Ireland, and out into the Atlantic Ocean.
This year, I pledge to drink no beer until St Patrick’s Day.
Michael’s first resolution every single year, and always the first to be broken. He did Dry January once and I boughthim one of those cheap medals with a ribbon to congratulate his efforts.
This is the year I’m going to learn how to speak a second language.
That was always my starting point, and so far I’ve taken up French, German and Italian at a very basic level, but it was enough to let Michael know that when I put my mind to something, I usually meant business. His mother, Evelyn, was very impressed. She always said I was such a good influence on him, which made him roll his eyes to the heavens.
I often think of Evelyn. My mother tells me she doesn’t mix at all any more. She still prefers to grieve alone, taking no calls and no visitors. I wonder what she’ll do this Christmas, alone now that both her son and her husband are gone. Every year my family invites her to join them, but every year she turns their invitation down, just like I do.
I take a deep breath and inhale the new surroundings which I’m hoping will lift my spirits, and at first glance they really do.
A frosted, bushy Christmas tree is perched proudly outside the dainty little sandstone chapel in the village, and it draws me closer to take a better look.
It has a life-size re-enactment of the Holy family outside by the Christmas tree, all set on a bed of straw, while festive carols are piped through a crackling sound system.
The various poky little shops, all painted in bright colours, are lit up with a golden, welcoming glow. It may only be four in the afternoon, but it’s already dipping down dark and as the snow falls softly down on shoppers, many of them scurryfor the Lighthouse Tavern, a cosy pub with traditional Irish music most evenings if my memory serves me right.
I haven’t been here in a long, long time.
‘Your face looks familiar,’ the lady in the craft shop tells me as I browse around her impressive range of stationery, handmade cards and decorative bits and pieces which have me salivating when I think of what I could do with them.
Let Rose loose in a craft shop, and she’ll make you a home in no time.
‘I used to spend my summer holidays here, but I haven’t been around these parts in many years,’ I say, trying to focus on what the shop has to offer more than what its owner has to say. ‘I must admit, I’ve a bit of a spring in my step just walking down memory lane.’
My family history is rooted in Fanad, so I’m not surprised I’m recognised even though many moons have passed since any of us were here, but I don’t want to strike up too much conversation in case Rusty hasn’t yet told Marion that I’m staying here and it gets back to her. As quaint as this area is, walls have ears and people talk. The last person I want to bring trouble to is Rusty, though I feel it might already be too late.
I feel bad for their marital problems, but it’s not my place to comment. Marion is prickly with me, I can sense that, so it’s best not to rock the boat by getting in any way involved. When Rusty’s father inherited the cottage through a silly raffle-type agreement after Granny Molly died suddenly with no proper will … well, let’s say some bridges were burned forever.
‘How much for these?’ I ask, holding up some scented pine cones.
I only came in here for a look around. It’s not like I’d planned to get into the festive spirit by buying things, but I’m already being swept along by the atmosphere and warmth of the store.
‘Aren’t they sweet?’ says the shop assistant. ‘They’re just two euros for three. My daughter made them. She’s been able to turn her hand to anything since she was a teenager. I was the same before my arthritis kicked in.’
‘I was the same as a teenager too,’ I reply as my mind rolls back to Christmas at home when I used to be that girl. I was the one who went hunting in the forest for berries and holly. I used to spend hours making pretty decorations out of nothing. I gulp back tears. How I wish I could find that girl again. How I wish I could even get a glimpse of her once more.
I don’t think she’s gone away totally, but she’s been taking a long break. My sister Sarah says my humour still shines through sometimes to show the old me, but I fear it’s just a mask to hide what’s really going on. Even how I joked earlier, ever so slightly, with Charlie. It was once so instinctive, but these days I wonder if it’s just a nervous reaction when I try to make someone laugh.
I used to be the funny one. I used to be the life and soul of the party, the one with all the ideas, the one who loved Christmas.
I reach for a basket.
I slowly lift some of the scented pine cones and put them into the basket, and my heart gives a leap. What am I doing?I only came in here to pass some time, but I can’t help being whisked up in the sounds, smells and warm Christmas atmosphere.
There are bunches of fresh evergreen and holly in the window, perfect for making up colourful Christmas wreaths … I feel a rush run through my veins. There are multicoloured ribbons in silver, red and gold. There are little ornamental robins, there are gingerbread and cinnamon candles, and when I lift one to my nose, I’m instantly taken back to when this time of year filled me with gladness. I think of my mother’s handmade decorations with a pang.
Decorate the tree for me, Rose, I hear her say as she so often did at Christmas.No one can decorate the tree like you can.
